Malignant
by Fuwakateema
Summary: She felt betrayed by her body because she ate right, and exercised, and engaged in a healthy amount of sex, and then just like that, her cells decided to turn on her with malignancy


Title: Malignant (1/1)   
  
Author: Jess (fauquita@hotmail)  
  
Category: CJ/Sam, post ITSOTG  
  
Spoilers: Up to and including ITSOTG.  
  
Rating: R  
  
Summary: She felt betrayed by her body because she ate right, and exercised, and engaged in a healthy amount of sex, and then just like that, her cells decided to turn on her with malignancy.  
  
Disclaimer: West Wing and its characters=ABS, everything else=me  
  
Thanks: Sid...you know what's up. Also, Oscar Wilde and Margaret Atwood.  
  
  
  
Before she felt like an echo of someone else's song, an actress performing a role not written for her, she used to smile at the people she passed on the sidewalk. Now she keeps her head lowered to her chest and watches her feet as they cover the distance from her apartment to the west wing because she doesn't want anyone to stop her and say, "hey, aren't you...?". In the beginning, people couldn't quite place her, and she was used to receiving that embarrassing smile of ignorance, was it a funeral or a wedding she'd attended with them? Now, however, she is unmistakably recognizable.  
  
Her car sits unused in the parking garage since the morning her hands shook so violently she couldn't put the key into the ignition. She has been too scared to try again, and so she tells everyone she needs the exercise even though her skin is drawn taut across her bones. But Josh is busy recovering, and Toby is busy acting like the director of the FBI, and Sam is busy avoiding her wounded eyes, and Leo is just, quite simply, busy, and so no one notices that she hasn't been able to sleep, or eat, or smile, in quite some time.  
  
More than anything, she just wants someone to hold her. But she doesn't know how to ask, and so she goes through her day mechanically, wondering how much longer it will be until the emptiness inside consumes her completely, and whether anyone will care. She feels violated, and vulnerable, and weak. She's screaming inside, desperately grappling for anything resembling normalcy and failing miserably in the end, because, really, how does one go back to normal after having a police car window shattered over their head by a bullet? Is anything really ever normal again after that?  
  
She doesn't think so.  
  
*~*  
  
The night before the operation, Patrick took her out to dinner, thinking an expensive meal at an over-rated restaurant would cheer her up. She didn't want to go, but because she'd vowed back in her twenties never to be boring, she threw on a low-cut black dress and high heels-Patrick was the only man she could do that with-and rode with the top down into the city.  
  
They sat outside in the soft breeze, and he held her hand over the table, something he had never done before. She knew he felt it was what he ought to do, but even duty loses its importance after a few glasses of wine, and it wasn't long before he retreated back into himself, and another bottle of Merlot. She made a concerted effort to eat, but soon settled for pushing her food around the plate.  
  
She didn't want to talk about the operation, but it was hard to concentrate on anything else. She was permeated, riddled, rotting from the inside out with cancerous cells, and tomorrow afternoon, she would wake up minus one breast, and the only other person who knew was sitting across from her pretending that nothing was wrong.  
  
Patrick told stories about famous producers and studio darlings, gossipy stories with a malicious spin, they kind she hated, the kind he was good at. She tried to laugh in all the right places, and ask the questions he expected, but she felt like she was rearranging chairs on a sinking ship, and so in the end she merely sat quietly while his eyes continued to slip from her face to the low neckline of the cocktail dress, intrigued and repulsed at the same time.  
  
~*~  
  
She used to be dazzling, he thinks as he watches her hurry down the hallway with a cup of coffee in one hand and messages in the other. Before the shooting, and the nightmares, and him, she used to shine. It is painful to look at her now, to note the hollowness of her eyes, and the cautious way she walks. He wonders why no one has tried to help her.  
  
He observes the shaking of her hand and winces when the steaming liquid spills over the rim onto her skin. She doesn't seem to notice-the coffee, or him-and when she passes Henry, she doesn't look up. It is only when he lightly hooks her arm with his that she smiles softly in greeting. But even her smiles are suspicious now, and Sam is convinced that it is not genuine. He waits until they disappear past his line of vision before turning back into his office.  
  
He doesn't like to think about that night she came to him, reeking of whiskey and despair. He remembers the fear in her eyes most of all, and the naked need written plainly across her face as she'd gripped his collar. Sometimes he imagines he can still taste her tongue, sweet and heavy in his mouth, and he will drink straight gin to burn away the memory.  
  
He didn't give into temptation that night, never took what she was so obviously offering, and she'd been embarrassed, and angry. The next day she'd been apologetic, and it was weeks before she could meet his eyes without blushing. But there were more important concerns than her clumsy attempt at seduction, and they soon fell back into their normal patterns.  
  
Only now, he finds himself thinking of her in odd moments. In staff, at the gym, most nights on the ride home, and sometimes-always, he corrects himself-when he is sitting across the dinner table from yet another accomplished woman in a fashionable bistro. The length of her legs, the curve of her cheek, the pure power of her smile; these images come to him despite his attempts to bury them. And he doesn't like to dwell on what this might mean.  
  
"The President wants a rewrite," Toby announces as he tosses a folder onto Sam's desk.  
  
Sam sighs and leans back in his chair, sliding his finger along the edge of his desk. "What's his problem this time?"  
  
Toby narrows his eyes and rocks back on his heels. He pauses for effect and tugs at his beard while Sam shifts nervously, though not apologetically. "The language is too soft." Toby finally answers.  
  
"We can't alienate these people." Sam counters. "I mean, far be it from me to tout the ideals of the Christian Right, but we can't-"  
  
"Rewrite it," Toby interrupts quietly.  
  
The two men engage in a silent struggle with their eyes for a few moments, but Sam gives in because he realizes belatedly that he doesn't really care what Mary Marsh thinks about the Welfare-to-Work initiative.   
  
"Fine."  
  
"Today."  
  
"I said, fine," Sam grits through his teeth.   
  
Toby casts an eloquent look in Sam's direction, but walks away wordlessly. Two hours and four drafts later, Sam slams his fist against the desk in frustration. It never used to be this hard, he thinks as he gulps tepid coffee from a mug stained with constant use. The President has made notes in the margins with red ink, and Sam is insulted.  
  
Her perfume fills the air, and he is suddenly aware of how intrusive the scent is. He pinches the bridge of his nose and looks up into her hooded eyes. She smiles self-consciously and tugs at the sleeve of her blouse.  
  
"Hey, Sam, do you have the President's remarks on-"  
  
"I'm working on them," he interrupts impatiently because he doesn't have time for this, for her.  
  
She is visibly taken aback by his tone, but she recovers quickly because her smile never falters. "OK. I'll be around for a while, so if you could drop them off..."  
  
"Yeah," he agrees wearily, running an agitated hand through his hair.  
  
"Is everything ok?" she asks timidly.  
  
He resents her sympathy and blanches at the soft look in her eyes. He is tired of the unspoken support, of the blind understanding, and most of all, he is tired of the images that haunt him every night. CJ bleeding and confused; CJ exhausted and distant; CJ desperate and needy. He wakes up sometimes almost positive he can still feel her body beneath his on the pavement, tense and unyielding. Nothing has been 'ok' since that night. But he senses she knows this truth, senses that she has her own demons, and instead of unburdening himself on the woman he thinks that he has begun to love, he shrugs his shoulders and smiles thinly.  
  
"Yeah, I'm just, you know," he pauses and sighs, "I'm just tired. I'm a little cranky."  
  
She tilts her head to the side and he feels she is peering straight into his soul. "Nightmares?"  
  
"No," he lies smoothly. "Between Josh and speeches and meetings..." he trails off, letting his false words settle between them like fog.  
  
She doesn't believe me, he thinks. She doesn't contradict him, but her mouth tightens in doubt, and when she smiles, her eyes remain unchanged. CJ clears her throat and straightens her skirt. "Well, ok. Listen, I gotta get back to my office. I left Carol talking to Josh, and God knows what rant he's gotten onto now."  
  
He gestures to his laptop. "I'll send it over when I'm done."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He watches her walk away and tries to ignore the dull ache in his chest. He refuses to believe he is in love with her simply because one humid night, two months ago, he covered her body with his own and prayed for the safety of their friends with his face pressed against her neck. But he doesn't know how else to explain the almost overwhelming warmth he feels in her presence now, or the affect her low-pitched voice has on his spine when she speaks sometimes. Maybe it's not love, he reasons. Maybe it's only infatuation, but he feels he owes it to himself to find out.  
  
~*~  
  
She didn't want the operation initially. She felt two things simultaneously: that there was nothing wrong with her, and that she was going to die anyway so why waste time undergoing a procedure that would leave her mutilated. Her doctor, a kind-eyed older man, told her that it was her choice, but that there was only one other alternative and he didn't have to actually say the word aloud for her to know it was death.  
  
And so she found herself waking up under the anesthetic, not really feeling anything at all besides a floating sensation that dulled her senses, and wondering with a surprisingly idle curiosity-considering the circumstances-where they kept removed body parts. She tried to move her right arm, but it was numb, and so she opted instead to move her left hand, realizing for the first time that someone was holding it.  
  
She forced herself to open her eyes, and the effort it took to turn her head to the side amazed her. She was shocked, and disappointed, but maybe also relieved that the fingers enclosed around her wrist belonged not to Patrick, but to Doctor Hanson. He smiled at her as though from far away, and his voice came through a concrete tunnel.  
  
"You're going to be just fine," he said. "We think we got it all."  
  
She tried to speak, but her tongue felt swollen and dry, and she only managed to grunt a few times before giving up. He patted her hand and she was mesmerized by the movement of his arm. He smiled down at her, benevolently, god-like, and that is when she began to hate him.  
  
"Go to sleep now."  
  
She wanted to ask him what she looked like now beneath the bandages across her chest, but she knew she'd be able to see for herself soon enough, and there was no point rushing the inevitable. And so she did go back to sleep, and when she woke up again, Patrick was there with caviar and crackers.  
  
He kissed the corner of her mouth, and because she knew what an effort it must've been for him, she didn't remind him that she hated caviar and swallowed the portions he fed to her. He was embarrassed to be there, like healthy people sometimes are around hospitals, and she wanted him to leave. She watched him walk away with an odd detachment born of the knowledge that things would never be normal between them again.  
  
~*~  
  
When she wakes up, her mind is not thought but color, blinding ribbons of color that overwhelm her senses and shrivel her insides. In an instant, she is back in Rosslyn with gravel digging painfully into her back and Sam's body crushing hers. The bedclothes are damp, and twisted so that she must struggle to free her legs. She pads to the kitchen, her chest still heaving with trapped cries, and drains a bottle of water so fast her stomach cramps. She wonders, sitting at her kitchen table in the darkness, whether she will ever be able to sleep through the night again.   
  
Exhaustion waits right behind her eyes and her bones ache with weariness. She sighs and lowers her head to rest on her folded arms. She wants a drink, something stiff and straight up, something numbing and the color of dark amber. But this is dangerous, and so instead she presses her lips together tightly and thinks of Sam.  
  
She hates that he has somehow crept into her consciousness when she wasn't paying attention, hates that he is always there now, hates that he doesn't feel the same connection. Her cheeks burn slightly even now thinking of that night she tried to lose herself in him, only to be rejected and embarrassed. But it was Sam, and even pushing her away he was gentle and polite, and so she was allowed to keep some shred of self-respect.  
  
She wanders into the living room and flops down onto the couch, curling her legs beneath her. Maybe her feelings for Sam, like the nightmares, will be with her always, or maybe they will fade as her wounds become less raw. She doesn't know which scares her more.  
  
~*~  
  
The morning Patrick moved out was the morning of her appointment with the radiologist. Dr. Hanson-Steve, now-- wanted more tests, a workup, just to be safe. But she didn't want the tests because she didn't want the results. He said they were only routine, but she was convinced that he wouldn't schedule more tests unless he thought something was wrong.   
  
"You're lucky, you're in remission, but we're always going to have to be careful," he told her over coffee.  
  
There is no 'we', she thought, I'm the one who's always going to have to be careful.  
  
And so she went home to her empty apartment where the wall was discolored from photos that used to hang there, but now sat in a box somewhere with the rest of Patrick's belongings. She wasn't surprised when he told her about the other woman, or even hurt, because the truth of the matter was, she couldn't stand to be touched by him, or anyone else, really. And once the sex was taken out of the equation, he wasn't good for much else.  
  
She felt betrayed by her body, and not Patrick, which came as a relief to him when they finally split after two months of trying to pretend that nothing had changed. She felt betrayed by her body because she ate right, and exercised, and engaged in a healthy amount of sex, and then just like that, her cells decided to turn on her with malignancy. Malignant was a good word. Pieces of her were missing now, and though she always tried to define herself against the sum of her body parts, she was overwhelmed by the absence of something she always took for granted.  
  
~*~  
  
"I can't stop thinking about you," he says when she opens the door. "I can't stop thinking about you, and I was hoping we could talk."  
  
She blinks a few times before smiling softly. "It's one o'clock in the morning." But she steps aside to allow him entry and turns the locks behind him.  
  
He takes in the upsweep of her hair, and her bare feet, and the shape of her long arms, and his palms burn with longing. He just wants to touch her, thinks that maybe if he did, he would know once and for all whether his love for her-if that's what it is--is real or a manufactured byproduct of a shared trauma. And almost as if she can read his mind, she lays a hand on his forearm and squeezes.  
  
"What is it, Sam?"  
  
"I don't know," he admits quietly. "I don't know, but that night you came to me, that night you-"  
  
"I'm sorry," she says as her cheeks burn with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to put you in an awkward position. I know-"  
  
"Why did you pick me?" he interrupts, his voice a mixture of urgency and pleading.  
  
She takes a deep breath and removes her hand. "Is it really that important?"  
  
Disappointment burns in his chest because she has shattered any illusion he'd previously entertained about the possibility of reciprocated feelings. He lowers his eyes and brushes past her easily. "No, no it's not important. I just thought...never mind. Sorry for stopping by so late."  
  
"You're leaving?"  
  
Hope courses through him because there is a note of desperation in her question and he thinks that maybe she wants him to stay.   
  
"I don't want to make a fool of myself." Sam is surprised by his own candor, but somewhere in the sheer honesty of his words, he finds the courage to meet her gaze unflinchingly. "Do you feel anything more than..."  
  
"More than what?" she asks as if the fate of the world depended on his answer.  
  
"I don't know you very well, CJ, and that's just sad when you think about it because life changes in an instant, and you're probably the kindest person I've ever met."  
  
She cocks her head to the side, and he is struck by the way her hair falls against her long neck. "Sam?" She is confused, he knows, because she knits her eyebrows together tightly.  
  
"Something happened that night. I've never entertained any romantic notions regarding-" he breaks off and shakes his head. "This isn't going to come out right, in fact, it's probably going to be insulting, so maybe I should just-"  
  
"You never thought of me in *that* way," she says for him, an amused smile crossing her lips.   
  
He nods his head. "Exactly. Not that I didn't think you were an attractive woman, CJ, because, God, those legs, but the thing is, something changed, something big. And I need to know why you came to me. Do you feel the same way? Is this...this thing real, or am I only willing it into existence? You have to help me, here."  
  
Countless seconds pass, and the room is filled with the sound of his ragged breathing. He thinks that maybe he has gone too far, but there is no way to retract his words, and he isn't sure he would if he could anyway.  
  
"I went out to lunch," she says simply. "You know that new Italian place over on Connecticut?"  
  
He nods his head, but she doesn't really see him because her eyes are glazed over with memory. He crosses the distance between them until he is standing close enough to smell her shampoo, and his skin prickles acutely from her proximity. He places one finger lightly on her wrist, a touch of reassurance and not need, and she relaxes her rigid posture.  
  
"I was in a hurry to get back to the office because I'd lost track of time, and I knew I had to deliver the afternoon briefing, but God, Sam, it just felt so good being outside of those walls. It was the first time in weeks that I'd actually felt, I don't know, powerful, in control."  
  
She smiles self-deprecatingly and shakes her head. "And then, right in front of the restaurant, a car backfired." She laughs humorlessly. "Of course, at the time I didn't realize that's what it was, and I just froze. Jesus, I couldn't move, and the first thing I did...the first thing I did..."  
  
"What?" he prompts.  
  
"The first thing I did was look for you. And you weren't there, you weren't there to save me this time, and I thought I was going to die. That's why I went to you that night. I wanted to be saved."  
  
She chokes on the last word, and he pulls her against him, wrapping his arms around her trembling form. She apologizes again and again against his chest, and he hates himself for not being able to make it better. And he realizes that while she is looking for saving, he is looking for forgiveness, and so he cups her face in both his hands and tastes her lips because he thinks maybe he will find it there.  
  
Passion, and longing, and a nameless hunger are infused into a single, searing kiss that leaves both of them breathless and weak. He breaks away reluctantly because he doesn't want to take advantage of her, but any doubts he had regarding his feelings for CJ vanished at the first tug of her teeth on his bottom lip.  
  
"What was that?" she asks huskily.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
A wide smile is all the warning he gets before she leans forward to claim his mouth again. This kiss is slower, and gentler, and she rests her hands on his hips. "I don't either, but it's nice."  
  
He just nods his head because his lips are too busy against her neck to verbally respond. When his fingers brush against the top of her hand, she pulls back enough to look into his desire-darkened eyes.   
  
"It's been a long time, Sam."  
  
He is confused for a moment because he doesn't know what she is referring to. But her face is flushed with something other than arousal and he smiles slightly with affection. "It's just like riding a bike," he assures her softly.  
  
He thinks of all the ways she could hurt him, and of all the ways he could make her cry. Images flash through his mind like a bad movie, but her eyes are so wide, and inviting, and warm, and he thinks it would be worth it because she has touched something deep inside him he thought was dead. And so he lays himself bare before her and this time, he is the one doing the offering.  
  
~*~  
  
The day after Patrick was gone for good, she decided to set goals for herself because Steve told her that a positive attitude was important in recovery, and she believed him. So she made a list of things she wanted to do: get back into politics, sign up for a sculpture class, stand naked in front of a mirror without flinching. She made another list of things to avoid: self-pity, bitterness, turtle necks. She performed her exercises by pressing her right forearm against the wall and squeezing a ball in her hand twenty-five times a day, and then she learned how to brush her hair again, and button blouses.  
  
She read books, and went to support group meetings, and taught herself not to expect too much because after all, she was alive, and that was more than she could say for a lot of people. But she still felt untouchable, unattractive, and when men asked her out to dinner, she was positive they knew about the special bra she wore to hide her loss. She didn't want to be pitied, a favor to one of her friends, a charity case, and so she spent most of her nights at home watching bad TV.  
  
But she found sweet relief in the simple things, like breathing in and breathing out. And she convinced herself she was happy.   
  
~*~  
  
His hands are at the edge of her camisole, and she wonders briefly whether she should tell him about what he will find. She decides to let him discover it on his own because his tongue is slick, and hot, and she doesn't want to let it go long enough to utter an explanation. His fingers caress the skin of her abdomen, and she shivers in anticipation and desire. She moans softly when he breaks the kiss and she barely has time to catch her breath before he pulls the cotton shirt over her head, throwing it behind him impatiently.  
  
His movements still and she watches as his eyes travel over the scar, the place where death kissed her lightly four years ago, and down to the missing flesh beneath. He doesn't flinch, but he hesitates long enough for it to count, and so she pulls away and crosses her arms over her chest protectively, apologetically.  
  
"I'm sorry, I should've told you before," she says softly. "I didn't know whether it would...look, I don't mean to be rude but can you just leave? This is the second time I've embarrassed myself like this with you and-"  
  
"When?" he whispers.  
  
She doesn't need to ask what he means. "About four years ago. I opted for a total mastectomy because there were malignant cancer cells in the lymph nodes, and once it gets there-"  
  
"I know."  
  
"They said I was lucky."  
  
"You were," he agrees, and then amends, "you are." He swallows painfully, and if possible, his voice grows even softer. "Does anyone else know?"  
  
She shakes her head. "It never seemed important, or relevant."  
  
She waits for him to say how sorry he is, to make his excuses, to pull his shirt on, to walk away, but he doesn't. Instead, he tugs gently at her arms and she allows his lips to cover hers, but when he tries to slip his tongue past her teeth, she pushes him away. "Don't."  
  
"I thought you wanted this."   
  
She is disarmed by the hurt in his voice because it seems out of place in her large bedroom.  
  
Her smile is watery and she looks down. "I do, but you don't."  
  
"You're wrong," he says huskily as he sucks on the skin of her collarbone. "You're so wrong."  
  
"I know you, Sam. I know you would do this because you think it'll help me."  
  
She opens up her mouth to say more, but when he traces the length of her scar with his tongue, her thoughts grow muddled and incoherent.  
  
"Sam," she finally manages breathily. "Jesus, Sam..."  
  
"Let me make love to you," he pleads against her neck.  
  
She doesn't know how desperate she really is until he threads his fingers through her hair and pulls her mouth back to his. He tastes like coffee, and promise, and fulfillment, and she returns the kiss ardently because she is beyond the point of caring about his motives. She curls her fingers in the light dusting of hair on his chest and wonders how she lived without this simple, human contact for so long.  
  
He pulls away and reaches his hands out to her body. He is gentle, and loving, and impossibly tender, and she comes alive underneath him. And she is grateful because all the time she thought she was living, she was merely existing, and now she knows the difference. He is touching her, she can be touched, and she feels solid, and whole, and beautiful. He saved her life when he pushed her down under the hail of bullets in Rosslyn, and now he has given her body back.   
  
She believes in second chances, and maybe Sam is hers.  
  
~Fin~ 


End file.
